by Paul Lederer
‘Dyce, if you have a plan for settling that trouble up there, I’d be obliged if you got to it as quickly as possible.’
After briefly examining the rooms in Walt Paulsen’s feed-and-grain warehouse, which were marginally suitable – one of them even having a cot in it – Tom accompanied William Asher back up town to his dry-goods store where he purchased a blood-red shirt, tossing his other away.
Then, without ceremony, Tom pinned on the town marshal’s badge and went out to look over his new domain.
Gunshots rang out as he stepped into the street and he swung around to see the bartender of the Foothill saloon running out of the building, waving his hands skyward.
‘It’s Lee Tremaine! He’s gunned down our swamper!’
Jeff?
Spinning on his heel, Tom walked toward the saloon where wisps of gunsmoke could be seen curling out above the batwing doors, and stepped up onto the porch, his eyes narrowed, his mouth set grimly.
SEVEN
Jeff Stottlemeyer, wearing a white apron, was sprawled against the floor of the Foothill saloon in a puddle of beer and blood. It was difficult to tell if he was alive or not. Lee Tremaine sat behind a card table, his cold eyes flickering toward Tom. There seemed to be a faint smile on the corners of Tremaine’s mouth. Perhaps because he knew that no one in town would be eager to testify against him at a trial. Tom looked again at Jeff – he had no gun. Why Jeff would have had a problem with Tremaine, Tom could not guess. Had he been gambling? Not wearing his work apron, he hadn’t. Tom stood in front of Tremaine now as a couple of men moved Jeff to a back room.
Lee Tremaine’s dark eyes flickered up, pausing briefly on the silver badge Tom now wore.
‘What seems to be the trouble, Marshal?’ Tremaine asked, managing to make the last word a mocking appellation.
‘You just shot a man, Tremaine. I’m taking you in for murder, or attempted murder, depending on whether your victim survives.’
‘Taking me in!’ Tremaine said, spreading his hands, one of which still held a deck of cards. ‘Where?’
‘We’ve made arrangements.’
‘Listen … Marshal … things aren’t as they might seem. Why don’t you sit down and we’ll talk about it.’ Tremaine pushed a chair toward Tom with his boot.
Sit down? Not likely. Tom knew how Lee Tremaine carried his gun – in a holster sewn to the side of his boot. ‘No, I’ll tell you what. Tremaine, you stand up and come along with me.’
Tremaine placed his deck of cards down, cocked his head as if thinking matters over and suddenly blurted out, ‘I don’t think so!’ And Tremaine tried to get to his feet as he made a grab for his awkwardly positioned gun. Tom leaned away and drew his Colt. Before Tremaine’s gun had cleared the table top, Tom had shot him twice. The gambler staggered back, tipped over the chair he had been sitting in and fell to the floor, his gun clattering free.
‘Nice work,’ someone muttered and Tom turned his head enough to see the owner of the bar, Horace Jefferson, looking his way, nodding his head in approval. A man was crouched over Tremaine’s body. He looked up shaking his head.
‘Here’s one for the blacksmith,’ the man said rising.
Tom put his gun away shakily. He had been lucky – with the shape his arm was in, he thought, any man in the room could have outdrawn him. Except for the man who wore his pistol on his boot.
Jefferson had stepped from behind the bar to approach Tom. He put his meaty hand on Tom’s shoulder. ‘You’re already paying dividends, Dyce. I’ve been trying to figure out how to get rid of Lee Tremaine for months.’
‘Thanks,’ Tom said dully. ‘Where’d they take Jeff Stottlemeyer? I want to see how he is.’
‘Jeff.…’ Jefferson’s face went blank. ‘Oh, Tarquinian. The boys took him into the store room. That way,’ he nodded. ‘It doesn’t look good for him.’
‘I’ll see. Will you arrange for a couple of men to take Tremaine over to Bridgeport’s blacksmith shop?’
‘Sure, I’ll do that, Marshal,’ Jefferson said, and when he used the last word there was no hint of disparagement.
Tom strode across the room, men parting to make a corridor for him. A general conversation broke out behind him as he entered the hallway leading to the store room.
Only a single man remained beside Jeff, who lay on a plank placed on top of two beer kegs. The man glanced up, bloody towel in his hand. It was the drunk Tom had seen in the Foothill before. With watery eyes he studied Tom and then looked back to the still form of Jeff Stottlemeyer.
‘Has he a chance?’ Tom asked.
‘I hope so. He’s the only man in the place who ever treated me like a human being,’ the drunk answered. ‘I’ve been trying to clean him up, but I can’t stop the bleeding.’
‘Where’d he get tagged?’
‘Low on the right side. If the bullet didn’t hit liver or kidney, he might have a chance – if the bleeding can be stopped. What he needs is a doctor.’
‘We don’t have one,’ Tom said. But they had the next best thing. ‘Go get two strong men. We’re going to move him.’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’
‘I don’t know if there is a good idea right now, but that’s what we’re doing. Go find two men.’
Laura had been folding some clothing she meant to take on the Saturday stage when there was a pounding on her door. She looked up with surprise, frowned and walked to open it. Outside the cottage door she found a group of men, Tom Dyce at their head. One of the men was injured. They had placed him on a plank and transported him to her place that way.
‘Can we come in, Laura?’ Tom asked. ‘It’s important.’ Tom’s face was pale, drawn.
‘I can see that. Come in.’ She stepped aside, motioning with her arm for the others to follow. ‘You can put him on my bed. This way.’
They followed her to her room, and after she finished clearing the bed of her neatly folded clothing, they lowered Jeff onto it. Laura took a quick look at the wound, nodded and said, ‘All of you who can’t help, clear out! I’ll need some room to work.’
‘Thanks, boys,’ Tom said to those who had carried Jeff.
‘It’s all right, Marshal. Just hope the man makes it.’
Laura’s eyes lifted at hearing Tom addressed as ‘Marshal’, but she said nothing, not just then. ‘Needle and thread, green moss, scissors, hot water and basin, mistletoe paste, plenty of bandaging,’ she said to herself as she brushed past Tom and scurried to the kitchen.
‘Can you help him?’ Tom asked when she returned with her arms loaded with supplies.
‘I don’t know. I haven’t tried yet,’ she said a little sharply. ‘Why don’t you wait out in the other room? I’ll call you if I need help rolling him over. Listen for the tea-kettle boiling.’
‘All right,’ Tom said meekly backing from the bedroom as Laura lifted Jeffs shirt and unbuckled his belt. Tom felt about as necessary as a fifth leg on a dog. It was humbling. He was recalled only twice, once to help Laura turn Jeff over, once to bring a kettle of hot water.
Over an hour later Laura emerged from the room. There was blood on her apron and on her hands. With the back of her wrist she wiped back the lank strands of red hair from her forehead, smiled faintly at Tom, and went to wash up.
‘Has he a chance?’ Tom asked, watching her at the sink.
‘I don’t know – a little action on the water pump if you don’t mind – he’s still alive, so there’s always a chance. I’ve never done anything close to that before, Tom.’ The water stopped flowing again and she dried her hands on a clean towel. ‘Why do men inflict so much damage on one another?’
‘I don’t know,’ Tom said, feeling suddenly guilty. Had he not just done the same thing himself? If Lee Tremaine had survived his wounds, would he have brought him to Laura as well? He doubted it.
‘Can you imagine what an army surgeon sees?’ Laura said with a shudder. ‘We had a retired army doctor in my home town. People used to wonder why he showed more interes
t in thinking himself to death than setting up a practice. I think I know now.’ She spun around and changed the subject abruptly.
‘I see you’ve taken on a new profession.’ Her eyes were fixed on the shining badge he wore. Her lips were pursed, her eyes glittering. Tom could not read that expression.
‘I thought I’d help out for a little while.’
‘I hope you don’t get yourself hurt again, Tom.’
‘I told you that I was trying to straighten out a few things. Thinking over what you said, having a badge didn’t seem like such a bad idea.’
‘What things?’ Laura asked as she led him back to the front room. ‘You mean the cattlemen’s troubles?’
‘Partly,’ Tom answered with a shrug.
‘You took on the job you don’t want – for the sake of Aurora Tyne,’ Laura said, sitting on the worn old sofa with a sigh.
‘I guess partly. Yes, I did!’
‘Why, Tom? You told me the woman doesn’t want you, that she has a new man. Are you trying to find a way to win her back?’ Her deep-blue eyes were steady and probing.
‘I still feel that I owe her something. What, I don’t know,’ he said seating himself beside Laura. ‘Does that make sense?’
‘Do you know what day tomorrow is?’ Laura asked, abandoning the subject. ‘It’s Saturday.’
‘It is, isn’t it?’ What she was telling him slowly sunk in. ‘Oh, you have a ticket on the stage.’
‘Yes, and I’m using it,’ she said with a hint of defiance.
‘Well, it’s what you’d made your mind up to do – what you wanted.’
Laura shook her head pityingly. ‘Yes, that’s it.’
‘What time does the coach leave?’
‘Not until noon. That’ll give me time to see to the wounded man again and find someone to take care of him.’
‘Jeffs got a room at the saloon.’
‘I don’t think he should be moved again. Not so soon.’
‘No, I guess not,’ Tom said, feeling the conversation wind down. He got to his feet.
‘I didn’t figure you’d be around in the morning to look after him,’ Laura said, rising to join him.
‘No, I’ve got to be riding up to the Thibido Creek country. The sooner I start taking care of matters up there, the better.’
‘I’ll find someone who’ll sit with Jeff for a few dollars. Do you have a place to sleep tonight?’
‘Yes. In my new office,’ Tom answered.
‘Oh?’ she said curiously. ‘I didn’t know you had one. Never mind.’ She took his hand and said, ‘Good luck to you, Tom.’ Then she rose to tiptoes and kissed him lightly, warmly, turned and walked back to the kitchen, leaving him stunned and confused. Walking out into the coolness of the evening he glanced skyward at the sliver of the new moon in a sky that was dark, still and solemn. Shaking off his mood, he stalked back to the feed-and-grain warehouse and found his ‘office’. Tom lay down on the shaky cot, hands behind his bed, hearing the faint scuttling of mice which probably infested the hay-strewn building.
There was little light in his room and he closed his eyes to try to sleep. Oddly he could still feel the touch of Laura’s warm lips lingering on his. A man can be such a fool! Eventually he curled up, threw his blanket across his legs and fell to sleep.
Less than an hour after dawn Tom Dyce guided Fog into the long grassy valley along the silver-bright Thibido Creek. The tips of the pines along the ridge were limned with gold as if a rank of Christmas trees were standing there. The shadows were cool beneath the canopy of oak trees as Tom rode across the yard. He could smell frying bacon in the air and the scent of coffee. No one was about. The yard dog emerged from beneath the porch, barked twice and ambled off, having done its duty.
The front door opened and Aurora appeared. She wore a white blouse and denim trousers. She watched Tom’s approach, arms folded. Eventually she waved.
‘Hello, Tom, we thought you’d abandoned us!’
‘I had some business to take care of,’ he said, swinging down and loosely hitching Fog to the rail. Aurora’s eyes narrowed. She was looking at his badge.
‘I see. You don’t waste much time, do you?’
‘It’s only temporary. They wanted to find someone to pin a badge on.’
‘I see,’ Aurora said with a tone that meant she didn’t see. ‘Come on in. I’ve fresh coffee. Ray is just finishing his breakfast. If you’d like anything.…’
‘No, thanks. I’m all right,’ Tom said although his stomach was calling him a liar.
In the kitchen Ray Fox was just finishing his meal. He wiped his mouth with a white napkin and leaned back in his chair. He, too, saw the badge pinned to Tom’s red shirt.
‘You do get around, don’t you?’ he said, a smile creasing his handsome face.
‘A man’s got to keep moving,’ Tom said. If Fox caught the meaning in his words, he showed no sign of it.
‘Well, I still haven’t found those missing calves. I’m giving it another try this morning. Want to ride with me, Tom?’
‘Sure, be glad to.’
‘Ask Art Royal where they are,’ Aurora said with a little bitterness.
Ray Fox went to her and took her in his arms from behind. He bent his face and kissed her on the neck. Tom felt baseless jealousy rise. Ray Fox seemed to sense eyes on him, for he released Aurora and told Tom:
‘I sent Juan out to saddle my horse. Let me grab my rifle and I’m ready.’
‘All right, I’ll be out front,’ Tom answered.
‘Sure you don’t want a quick cup of coffee?’ Laura asked.
‘No. I’d better get going,’ Tom replied.
She shrugged as if it were of no importance to her and got back to her sink. Tom had hoped to have a word or two with Aurora, but about what? He heard the sound of the returning Ray Fox’s boots clicking against the floor and he turned to leave the house. The time for talking had gone, it seemed.
Ray Fox was mounted on a leggy sorrel horse when the two men left the ranch yard. Aurora stood on the porch, watching them go with unreadable eyes. Tom thought that it was the badge he wore that concerned her. If it bothered her, it didn’t seem to faze Ray Fox at all. He never mentioned it again – of course, that didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about its significance.
‘You know this country, Tom. Can you think of a place we might not have looked?’
‘Do you know the Sugar Bowl?’ Tom asked as Ray slowed his eager horse to ride beside the plodding Fog.
‘No. I’ve only been here a month or so. That’s why I asked you along,’ Fox said, tilting back his hat so that a fringe of dark curly hair escaped onto his forehead.
‘Sugar Bowl is a tiny valley, a sink really, what some call a teacup valley, a few miles east. I thought of it because it’s out of any normally traveled route, and because of its form. The sides aren’t really all that steep, but they might be enough to convince a spindly young calf that it wasn’t worth trying to scale – especially if they were already tired from being driven hard. That, and there’s usually a pencil-thin rill running along the bottom.’
‘All right,’ Ray Fox agreed. ‘Let’s have a look.’
An hour on they came to something that caught their attention. Ray Fox, frowning, pulled up on his sorrel and sat letting his eyes search the ground. ‘Am I seeing what I think I am?’ Fox asked Tom.
‘It looks that way.’ For now they could clearly see the sign of four or five young cattle being driven from the south, and from the north, where there was another cut in the wire fence, three or four others. ‘They’re being driven from both sides of the wire. Your calves and Art Royal’s.’
‘And we’ve been accusing each other,’ Ray said unhappily. ‘Tom, it looks like we’ve both got a couple of traitors riding for us, wouldn’t you think?’
‘It seems that way. There are too many new-hires working up here. It seems a few of them got together and figured out a way to make their own start.’
‘Maybe they knew each othe
r before and had this planned out.’
‘It could be – but it looks like Art and Aurora owe each other an apology. Let’s string a rough fix on those barbed wire strands and then ride on. It seems that we must be headed in the right direction,’ Tom said, tugging on his gloves.
In fifteen minutes they were back in the saddle, heading toward the Sugar Bowl again. Remote, it lay beyond the boundaries of either ranch. It was the place Tom would have chosen himself if he were a rustler. They entered thick pine forest and were briefly hidden in the cool shadows.
Even before they had emerged from the woods they could hear the sounds of a bewildered calf bawling. A man shouted sharply and another answered. Ray Fox pointed at a narrow, wind-flagged column of smoke.
‘Branding time,’ he mouthed at Tom, and removed his Winchester from its saddle scabbard. They walked their horses across the grassy clearing between them and the rim of the Sugar Bowl, each carrying a rifle across his saddlebow now. To their left they saw two riderless horses, left to graze on the flats.
They rode to the very lip of the Sugar Bowl, and looking down they could see fifty or so calves, four men and a low-burning fire with running irons heating in it. One calf had already been thrown and tied and this was the one bawling wildly.
‘Ain’t those irons hot yet?’ one of the men called with a sense of urgency.
Tom started his horse toward the concave slope of the valley. A narrow path was visible, evidently the one used by the rustlers. Ray Fox asked in an anxious whisper:
‘What are you going to do, Tom?’
‘Arrest them, I guess,’ Tom answered, and he kneed Fog forward. Ray Fox muttered an unintelligible word and gripped his rifle more tightly, following Tom Dyce into the teacup valley.
EIGHT
One of the men held a running iron in his gloved hands as he approached the writhing calf that was being held down by an accomplice. He wore leather chaps and a black-and-white checked shirt. The man holding the calf down lifted his head at the sound of approaching horses and Tom saw his eyes open wide.